


Keeping Secrets

by laughingtoucan



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Gen, Post-Dragon Age II Quest - All That Remains, Protective Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27297253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingtoucan/pseuds/laughingtoucan
Summary: Selina Hawke has a bad time.Trigger Warning: brief mention of animal deathSide note: We’ve got 4 player character Hawkes between us (this piece concerns the middle twins--both purple) and neither Carver or Bethany die because we said so.





	Keeping Secrets

She wakes with a start, jolting upright in twisted sheets, heart pounding and throat tight. Counting her heartbeats, she holds her breath in cycles until the hammering slows and softens.

Still unsettled, she rubs her bleary eyes and piecemeal, the world returns as her vision adjusts to the dark room.

The curtains are drawn, though a sliver of light still manages to pierce through where the two segments do not quite overlap. The world beyond her room, the Amell Estate itself and the Hightown are quiet and that knowledge gives her mind a small amount of peace, though her body refuses to yet be convinced.

So she mentally paws at the space around her, looking for smaller details to ground herself with to stall the impending dread that hangs patiently over her shoulder. She breathes a sigh of relief that Merrill still sleeps soundly next to her, unperturbed by her lover’s movement. On the floor, Lucky wheezes softly, the mabari too, blessedly unaware. Selina still feels uprooted and untethered despite the lack evidence to support her own internal upset. It claws at the inside of her head and deep in her gut and she wonders, thoughts spiraling, if this is the sort of thing mages feel when demons stalk their dreams.

She cannot remember her dream tonight and for that, she’s grateful. Her body remains restless all the same and the thick, plush covers of her shared bed feel too restrictive and heavy. So she eases them back and slips off, cautious on her feet—toes first onto the floor, letting them taking her weight. Only once clear of her bedroom with the door shut behind her, can she fidget without apprehension.

Her toes tap and fingers twist the fabric of her short nightgown. Out on the upper landing there’s a lot to survey, but little that matches her pace. No one is up, all bedroom doors shut, barricading their occupants in from all her nervous energy.

Probably for the better.

She knows she can’t stay up all night though. At the very least, come morning, people might ask questions that she won’t have the energy to lie through.

All this while, she feels like something is hiding just out of her peripheral—something dark and unkind. Whenever she turns, she can’t find anything—just mundane shadows, and she feels stupid, idiotically paranoid for even trying to find them. She doesn’t know what she’d do if she did.

When her pacing draws down her into the library, she realizes her hands are shaking and fury wells tears up in the corners of her eyes.

Stupid.

Childish.

Looking for a boogeyman that doesn’t exist.

Except she knows it does…

She collapses back into a broad armchair and fights to keep from curling up on herself. She can do this, she reasons—she can sit like a normal human being and not crumple in on herself like a frightened child. But the more she stares down at her bare feet, shakily pressed to the wooden floor, the more acutely she can imagine hands, inky black and gnarled inching out from under her, ready to grab and wrench her from her seat, pulling her away to Maker-knows-where.

Looking away does little to assuage her fears. Glaring up at the ceiling, fists clenching in her lap, she finds her imagination even crueler. They creep in through the doorway, low to the ground, shambling in, hungry for violence.

She tries to hold her ground, Maker, she tries.

But she can see the bloody path they’ve taken through Darktown and the gouges carved through their cellar made by weapon and talon alike. She can see where Orana was caught startled—where she tried to run, only to fall just short of the door. She sees them picking through Tibalt’s room and watches Roger whimper as the world grows dimmer, his master bent at unfamiliar angles and unmoving.

The weight is too much, to heavy to bear and she jerks, knees snapping abruptly to her chest as she covers her mouth to stifle a sob.

She folds into herself, hands over her mouth, her face tucked against her knees. She doesn’t want to see the end when it comes.

Selina hears a voice in the hall and the illusion comes crashing down, just a hand mirror slipping from her grasp, shattering against the ground, the reflection within it no more.

Her head jerks up and she yanks at the front of her gown to scrub her damp face against.

“You know if I’d known you were out here having a go, I would have stayed in bed.”

The shift of gears is jarring, but welcome. Reynard stands in the doorway, eyes averted, but a sleepy casual smile. She realizes her position and a beat too late, realizes her lack of smallclothes.

She laughs.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

His smile is infectious—it always has been. Because she’s wearing it too, despite...everything. There’s a warmth in the darkness now, a safety. She’s grateful.

As she unfolds, she tugs her gown back down from where it’s rumpled up around her hips and waist. “So what brings you out this late?” She asks, moving to sit sideways, draping herself over the arms of the chair. The dramatic flair is a welcome haven.

“Can’t sleep.” He shrugs, finally lowering his gaze. He doesn’t have pockets and she chuckles, watching his hands try to find somewhere to hide. Instead, he folds his arms as he gives up in hunting for something that doesn’t exist. “You? Kitchen’s the other way, you know.” It’s lighter in the library than her room—the skylights help draw in the moonlight. It’s almost calming now that she’s noticing it.

“Could say the same of you.”

“Door was open. I’m serially nosy.”

He doesn’t ask further though. He never asks. He was there when it happened. When the king fell and the Wardens died with common men, Carver at their front and Ulric behind. Reynard stood at her side, shoulder to shoulder when the darkspawn surged through the ranks of the King’s army, saw her paralyzed in horror as men were cleaved apart. Reynard kept pace with her as they fled for home, then for Gwaren, navigating back roads and icy forest trails. Though no warden, Selina swore she could feel the pulse shared by the creatures—the drive that commanded them to spread out like a plague.

Seeing fear, Ulric tries to coddle. Tibalt lashes out.

Reynard stands silent, but waits. She’s not ready to ask for help and he respects it. He paces himself when she stumbles and mirrors himself to her. Together, they exist as a single unit, a single breathing entity of benign chaos and misdirection. Some days she feels a pull from him and knows she must pick up the slack. She doesn’t ask.

And when reversed, neither does he.

When she stands and comes to him, she finds his eyes bloodshot and wonders what unfortunate darkness hides in the corners of her twin’s mind. When she reaches out, they slot into other another, arms encircling tightly. It’s a good, grounding feeling. Wholeness in a way. Steady.

“Anders upstairs?” She asks.

His hands flinch slightly, almost unnoticeable. “No. He’s out...doing whatever it is he needs to do in the middle of the night in the slums.”

She sways on her feet some, making them both wiggle. “You’ve going to catch the Shifty Bitch disease from him.”

“You’re the one eating a blood mage out on the reg.” He squeezes around her middle and threatens to lift her off the ground, but she counters by dropping her weight until his resistance ends.

“Merrill’s upstairs and I don’t want to wake her. Can I sleep with you?”

He nods and the estate is silent again, spare for the soft padding of their feet as they climb back up the stairs.

In his bedroom, Sirius lays belly up in the corner, snoring. Reynard’s sheets are an unbridled mess on his bed, corners untucked and loose. It’s all the easier to slide back into though and once covered, they quickly tangle back into one another. It’s easy like this, to listen to the other’s breathing and gauge their own—slower, and slower still. Eventually, one yawns and the other follows.

It feels like home, before Kirkwall, before darkspawn. When their father and mother still lived—always patient in staying awake until the last child fell asleep.

It feels good.

She kisses Reynard’s cheek, “Thank you.” And sleeps.


End file.
